in tenebris est veritas.
It has been five years to the day since Valeri’s death, since the wind-whipping, blood-spraying, throat-aching, heart-rending moment that took the light from his eyes. His bones never were laid to rest, at least not in any of the ways he might have liked, so this is the place where he must be remembered. This place, with its flowers and its benches and its wretched elegance, held the mourning energies of so many who had passed through it before. So it is the place she must go, with her little offering for him, to add her energy to the rest of them, to give this place its meaning and so give Chaele hers.
The sky is dark and close, clouds hanging low as they hold on to the last blue light of evening. The rain has already fallen and threatens to again– all the better, despite the mud on her boots and the puddles in her path, if it means that she might be left alone to her grief. The totem in her hand hangs from a bright blue string, his favorite color. It is made of an old set of divination cards, his favorite ritual, in the crude shape of a moth, his favorite animal. And though his favorite tree does not grow in this area, she will find a place to hang it.
But first she finds something strange on the ground. She is far from the road, for they both preferred such places, and had only looked down to see her footing. At first supposing it to be some sort of interesting growth from the wet soil, she reaches for the reddish strands and attempts to lift them… but they have a unique texture that can only be one thing.
This was a hasty burial. The grave is shallow enough that the rain has already washed away its upper layer, and it doesn’t take long for Chaele to unearth the days-old face and bust of a fae woman’s corpse. The skin is bloated and greenish, a nest of young insects feasting on the hole in the shattered chest. A brief glance around reveals the dagger that might have done it, which she uses like a spade to clear away the rest of the earth. The shaman winces and tips her mask up atop her head to get a better look, bare hands moving liberally over the body in examination of it.
A staff. A shawl. Perhaps a purse. But this is more than items of material value. It is a body slain in violence, holding some grief or anger or fear that Chaele will never know. There is power in such a thing: in the roused heart, the metabolizing maggots, the fateful entrails, the cursed bones. It is a rare find, and not one she will take for granted. With a deep inhale of the rain-soaked air, she sets to harvesting what she can.
And a distant storm rumbles in the distance, like a warning.
The sky is dark and close, clouds hanging low as they hold on to the last blue light of evening. The rain has already fallen and threatens to again– all the better, despite the mud on her boots and the puddles in her path, if it means that she might be left alone to her grief. The totem in her hand hangs from a bright blue string, his favorite color. It is made of an old set of divination cards, his favorite ritual, in the crude shape of a moth, his favorite animal. And though his favorite tree does not grow in this area, she will find a place to hang it.
But first she finds something strange on the ground. She is far from the road, for they both preferred such places, and had only looked down to see her footing. At first supposing it to be some sort of interesting growth from the wet soil, she reaches for the reddish strands and attempts to lift them… but they have a unique texture that can only be one thing.
This was a hasty burial. The grave is shallow enough that the rain has already washed away its upper layer, and it doesn’t take long for Chaele to unearth the days-old face and bust of a fae woman’s corpse. The skin is bloated and greenish, a nest of young insects feasting on the hole in the shattered chest. A brief glance around reveals the dagger that might have done it, which she uses like a spade to clear away the rest of the earth. The shaman winces and tips her mask up atop her head to get a better look, bare hands moving liberally over the body in examination of it.
A staff. A shawl. Perhaps a purse. But this is more than items of material value. It is a body slain in violence, holding some grief or anger or fear that Chaele will never know. There is power in such a thing: in the roused heart, the metabolizing maggots, the fateful entrails, the cursed bones. It is a rare find, and not one she will take for granted. With a deep inhale of the rain-soaked air, she sets to harvesting what she can.
And a distant storm rumbles in the distance, like a warning.
